Distance

Brendan finished reading a long-form article about Charles Dickens. It was partially concerned with the Englishman’s fixation on imprisonment. Brendan brewed a cup of oolong tea and pondered the nightmarish idea of being thrown in jail for a crime one didn’t commit. He took slow, careful sips and stared out the window. He watched a tufted titmouse leap from a tree branch and fly away.

His iPhone buzzed, startling him. These days no one called. The number was unknown. On a whim, he answered.

“Hello?”
“Brendan?”
“Yes?”
“This is Charles.”

Charles? Brendan paused for a good long while and then asked the caller to explain how they knew each other.

“We met in prison. Remember?”

Never having been imprisoned, Brendan didn’t remember.

“You said that thing to me about us both being in prison? We were in the grocery store? It was pretty soon after Covid got really real and all the mask-wearing and distancing and stuff? Remember?”

Brendan still didn’t remember.

“You gave me your number? You said… if I ever needed a job?”

Brendan hung up. He turned his phone off. Whoever that guy was, if he was nice and sincere and not crazy, he certainly wouldn’t be approaching me like this. No normal person would reintroduce themself like that. We met in prison? That’s just weird and rude and scary. Plus, who calls anybody anymore? I certainly don’t.

Brendan drained his tea. Then he grabbed his mask and headed out for a walk. He kept his head down and kept his distance.